


Wake the Dead

by Saccharine_Ghosts



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, Angst, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crushes, Extreme Fuckery™, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, Light-Hearted, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Character Death, Murkoff Corporation, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Pining, Private Investigators, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unrequited Love, don't be intimidated if you've never seen Pushing Daisies!!, it will make sense regardless, mlm author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-01 00:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saccharine_Ghosts/pseuds/Saccharine_Ghosts
Summary: There's a dead body rotting away in a morgue in Leadville, Colorado. It seems like everybody and their grandmothers are convinced that this is no accident. Apart from the police, of course.Miles Upshur can't let this case rest. He knows there is more to this story than meets the eye, and he can't leave until everybody who is involved is brought to justice. Also, if he could catch a date with the cute yet mysterious pie maker who moonlights as a private investigator that keeps popping up around every corner, that would be equally as nice.If only his best friends, an ugly mutt, a shady corporation, an eccentric waiter, and the entire population of Leadville didn't stand in his way, but Miles always said the best stories are the ones that leave a mark.





	1. Characters

**Author's Note:**

> My latest Outlast project! I've been trying to think of a fun AU that I didn't think had been done before for these two, and I woke up in a cold sweat last night with the entire thing planned out. Funny how shit happens like that. 
> 
> I honestly think this is the most plot-heavy, slow burn fic I have ever written. If that's not your cup of tea, or if you're accustomed to my usual 'shoot first, ask questions later' style, you won't find that here. Regardless, I'm really proud of this, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> \+ Just a note: I'm sure you'll be fine, since you're an Outlast fan, but be wary of the tags. This is still a WIP, so I'll be updating the tags as the chapters are updated. If you're sensitive, keep an eye out.

Slipping past security was the easy part. Who breaks into a morgue? Nobody. Well, nobody with a normal head on their shoulders, and Miles Upshur, investigative reporter, prides himself in being anything but normal. It’s even easier to slip past the receptionist at the front door, feet propped on his untidy desk, and snoring so loud that Miles doesn’t even have to try to be quiet as he makes his way through the lobby.

With all the confidence of a man with nothing to lose, he waltzes right up to the unfamiliar entrance of the coroner’s office. There’s a sign on the door, _‘Gone for Lunch’_ it reads, and he silently pats himself on the back for a job well planned. Slipping in at such a lax time, in such a quiet town, on such a hot summer evening was not something he was used to, but he had to admit it was much easier than sneaking in under the cover of night, slipping in and out under alarms and cameras that always left the possibility of blowing his cover. Miles came all this way for a story, sure as hell he wasn't leaving without one.

He used his shoulder to nudge open the heavy French doors, both swinging in and giving way to reveal two people inside, hunched over a table and mumbling to themselves. It startled him, and though his boots skid across the marble floors when he came to an unexpected halt, they must have not noticed him, much too invested in whatever cadaver they were looking at. 

Miles had only a few seconds of study, realizing that they too were most likely not meant to be anywhere near this scene. A short blond was hunched over a fresh body, a hairless man in cheap dress shoes and a suit vest hovering over him and mumbling into his ear in a thickly accented voice, speaking low and without the normal mortician’s garb. 

“- not good. When the wife gets back from service, we should try and talk to her.”

“You think that’s smart?” the blond stood straight as a board as if he planned to tell the other man off, but not before catching a hastily retreating journalist in his peripheral. “Wha – _Who_ \- What are you doing here?” 

“Wrong room,” Miles shot over his shoulder, “Sorry to disrupt.” 

Long, slender fingers curled over his shoulder as his foot hit the threshold into the lobby, pulling him back into the room and spinning him around. 

“Get a load of this!” his eyes were steel and cold, mouth upturned in a wolfish grin that made Miles’ blood run cold. “Do I know you?” 

“Don’t think so,” he gave a charming grin, “Just got one of those faces.” 

“No, no, I _definitely_ do. Ever been arrested?” He pinched his chin between two manicured fingers, giving him a twice over before snapping his fingers, “Upshur! Miles Upshur, right? We’ve definitely crossed paths before. ” 

Forgetting the fear of trespassing charges, Miles crossed his arms, broadening his shoulders but never dropping that signature smirk. “One, not that I’d be willing to admit. Two, am I’m supposed to know you or something?” 

“Simon Peacock, P.I.” he stuck out one lean calloused hand, “We met at the Wernicke court case. I remembered your handle because it is so utterly made up, I couldn’t believe any respectable reporter would use such an unbelievable penname.” 

The blond still standing by the table tensed, but Miles paid him no mind, raising a fist to point at the taller man and press a finger to his spotless jacket. “It’s not a penname, dickweed, it’s a family name. But now that you mention it, I think I do remember you. _You’re_ the asshat who backed into my Jeep!”

Simon patted the other mans cheek, leaving him sputtering with a face darkening in anger. “Lighten up, mate, it looked like a deathtrap anyway.” 

“Not all of us can afford Lincolns, you absolute –“ 

“E-Excuse me,” the blond suddenly cut in, pressing a hand onto Peacock’s bony shoulder. “If you’re not here on business, we’re a little busy.” 

The brunet’s eyes shot from the private investigator to the blond, and back, smile slowly etching its way back onto his face. Although the shorter man was cute – _unbelievably_ so – it was obvious he was nervous, and not the one calling the shots; he would definitely be a point of interest, in more ways than one. 

“You don’t seem so sure, but I think I’ll leave you to it.” Punctuating his sentence with a wink, he spun on his heels. “Can’t help you with that cheatin’ bastard, I guess.” 

The journalist took a step and a half before the investigator was calling him back, “Wait a minute, Upshur.” 

He just looked over his shoulder, a small gesture to show he had heard, but was not very interested. 

“You think he was cheating?” 

“Simon-“ 

“Waylon, let me handle this!” 

Miles rotated once, pointing to the now on-display body resting on one of the morgue tables. “Looks like he had a side piece. It’s obvious, if you’d paid attention at all.” 

He made his way over to the table, gesturing for the other two to follow him. “You been doin’ this private investigating stuff long, Waylon?” 

Said man looked taken aback at the sound of his name from the stranger, but shook his head gingerly, stepping towards the opposite side of the body. “I’m – I’m not a P.I.” 

“Oh?” Miles slipped on some gloves, cocking his head to the side as he snapped the latex on his wrists. “What’s a warm body like yourself doing in a place like this?” 

Peacock only scowled, crossing his arms and watching Miles manoeuvre around the body, carefree like nothing he could do would ever possibly taint the evidence. Waylon, on the other hand, was blushing furiously and pulling at the collar of his shirt like the room was suddenly too hot to bear. 

“He’s a natural,” Simon broke in before Waylon could open his mouth, “Too unstable for the field, very empathic.” 

The brunet nodded along to the information, taking his time to examine the corpse and its features. “A natural…” With one swift motion, he pulled the sheet that covered the body down, exposing dark purple bitemarks set onto a paling chest and collarbones. “How come you didn’t notice these then?” 

Waylon’s almond-shaped eyes blew wide, and Miles couldn’t help but think it was absolutely adorable the way his flush bloomed down his neck and his deep blue irises were engulfed by his pupils. “Th-That wasn’t in the report.” 

“They’re fresh,” the Aussie pointed out, “Probably just moments before death.” 

A small bark of a laugh escaped Miles’ mouth and he pointed one finger gun in their direction, “Bingo, Lex, and definitely not from his main squeeze. Soldier leaves her man to fight the good fight, who knows what kind of dirty deeds he gets up to while she’s gone.” As he spoke he removed his gloves, tossing them into the nearest bin and gripping the edge of the table, sly expression boring into Waylon. “Some men are just… so egregious. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“He wouldn’t know,” Simon cut the man off, looking less than impressed at his flirting attempts. “This was definitely not in the public report, so how’d you figure it out, _Clark?”_

“Well maybe that’s for me to know and for you to find out,” he waved flippantly, stepping around the table. “You’re an investigator, do some investigating.” 

For one last time, he made his move to exit, but not before the quiet blond could pull him back to the situation by blurting out “We’ll tell security!” in a single breath. 

Miles rocked on his heels, letting out a humourless laugh at the prospect of these two (who no doubt snuck in or paid off reception in advance) calling him in, before turning around and pulling out his wallet. 

“Tell you what,” he pulled a card out from the licence fold, “Maybe we can get dinner sometime, and I’ll tell you what I know.” With a single finger he pulled open the breast pocket of Waylon’s flannel and slipped it inside, leaning so he could meet the shorter man’s ear to whisper _“Skeletor’s not invited.”_ before patting the card once for good measure, and sauntering off, hearing Waylon let out a muffled snort behind his hands. 

“What did he say?” Simon demanded, voice cracking at the ends. “What’d he say to you, Park?” was the last thing he heard before the doors shut behind him. Just like when he had entered, exiting went by in a breeze. The receptionist was still dead asleep, and security was nowhere to be found. Even though he knew the chances of Waylon taking up his offer were slim, he had all the information he needed, and he couldn’t quite help the skip in his step as he made his way to the Wrangler. 

That was two days ago, and since then not much had changed in the way of news. There wasn’t much to do in this homespun blip of a town. New York born and Washington raised, Miles was more acclimatized to big city life, and the kindness of these new strangers going about their every day idealised life without the threat of day-old street meat sweats or traffic congestion on the horizon had him on edge. He had been here three days, and the most he had seen to remind him of home was a catfight in an alley and an elderly man receiving a parking ticket for doing 45 in a 30 zone. Even then, the cats eventually came to an agreement and stalked off to lick their wounds, and the policewoman let Mr. de Costa off with a stern warning, and nothing more. If it weren’t for the man rotting away in the morgue on the other side of the town, it would seem like nobody in this town was out for blood, and that was a first for him.

Even thinking the word _‘fuck’_ felt dirty, like the others around him could read his mind. The journalist was itching for something raw, something universal - something other than this wide-open case and organic vegan gluten-free coffee shops. 

Salvation came in the form of an almost empty pie shop, sign painted vibrant colours but dripping in age and character. Even the inside looked somewhat retro, but not in the usual hipster way. He expected it to be run by some mom-and-pop old couple, serving piping hot apple pie made with who-knows-what and strong black coffee from who-knows-where, but he always did like a little mystery with his lunch. 

But instead, the jingling of the chimes above the door alerted a hulking beast of his presence, and he was being tackled to the ground before he could even react. 

“Chris!” a deep voice called out, “Christopher, darling, stop mauling the customers!” 

It was far too late. By the time the massive mutt was hauled from his body, Miles’ face was thoroughly coated in a layer of slobber and the air in his lungs had been completely squeezed out. 

“I’m terribly sorry, sir!” The man who removed the behemoth spoke again, offering his hand to help the fallen reporter up. “Sometimes he just does not know his manners.” 

Taking him in, Miles now understood why so many people said we pick dogs that are a projection of ourselves. Leaning over him was a sharply dressed figure, easily a Miles-and-a-half in width and no doubt a few inches taller. His gloved hands dwarfed the journalist’s own as he used it to stand, and the other large hand gripped his shoulders much too tight after a bruising fall like that. 

“Shit happens,” replied the brunet, brushing off his jacket, “Took me by surprise is all.” 

“Here!” the man disappeared behind the mint-green island counter, shooing the dog in the process. “For the… gift he left you.” 

Miles took the cloth he procured with caution, using it to dab the damp spots of his face. The man, despite his intimidating stature, looked genuinely worried about him. Like a nervous tick, he fiddled with his apron and ran a hand over his immaculate undercut, letting Miles see now that he could have been cut right out of the 1950’s and thrown forwards in time. 

“Are you hurt? I couldn’t stand the thought of our Christopher pushing away any potential customers with his unorthodox affections.” 

The journalist chuckled, shaking his head and settling into one of the bar stools. “Don’t worry about it. He’s a handsome fellow, I feel lucky to be on the receiving end of said affections.” 

The other man looked elated at his nonchalant response, quickly busying himself with something behind the counter. “Here, let me give you something for your troubles.” 

“Really, it’s no big deal.” 

“I insist!” the man shook his head, and it was obvious there was no room for an argument as he set down a plate with some sort of sweet confection on it. “It is a bit experimental, so please let me know what you think. Anything else you’d like?” 

“Coffee and a slice of peach would be great, thanks.” With some hesitation, Miles shoved a forkful of the dessert into his mouth. Overly sweet and an assault on his taste buds, he had to fight back the look of disgust that threatened his features, and instead mumbling out “How long’ve you had him?” 

“Oh, Chris?” the man looked up from the coffee machine. “Sadly, he is not mine, though he might as well be.” For the second time, the man shook his head, this time accompanied with an exasperated sigh. “Waylon just does not seem to have the time for him, poor boy.” 

At the sound of the uncommon name he forgot all about the saccharine taste coating his pallet and dropped his fork to the plate. _“Waylon?”_

“The owner,” he threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen, “I just work here, have for years.” 

Miles pursed his lips, forcing the crumbly substance down his throat. It was like swallowing rocks, but the man had seemed so excited for his input earlier, he couldn’t bear to tell him exactly how shit the food really was. 

“Is he… Is he in right now?” 

The other man thought for a moment. “He left about an hour or so ago,” he pouted a bit, “though he should be back any moment, I’d say. Would you like to speak with him?” 

“Yeah, I –“ he licked his teeth free of the revolting sweetness, trying to think of what would be best to say in a situation like this. It was obvious Waylon and Peacock were not supposed to be at the morgue that day, and he wondered whether or not his employee knew of his escapades with the private investigator. “Met ‘em the day I came into town,” he settled on, “I got lost, he helped me out, said if I was in the area I should stop by.” 

The waiter sighed dreamily, resting his head on one oversized mitt and fluttering his eyelashes. “Ah yes, that sounds like Waylon.” Suddenly the coffee machine beeped, alerting the man of its progress. He poured Miles a cup and slid it over, and the man had to fight the urge to down the piping liquid to ease his tongue of the sugary torture. “Is he or is he not the sweetest man you’ve ever met?” 

Holding back a snicker, Miles hid the small snort he couldn’t contain behind his mug. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” 

“Oh!” he suddenly barked, a little too loud. “Excuse me, I just realized I haven’t introduced myself. I swear, I would lose my head if it weren’t screwed on my shoulders! Edward Gluskin, but you may call me Eddie. I… am the manager, you could say.” 

“Nice to meet you, Eddie.” Miles flashed a crooked smile to the eccentric man, “Name’s Miles. I’m a journalist, you could say,” and with a charming wink, Eddie was smiling once again. 

A patron by the window signalled for the man, cup in the air without looking up from their laptop to show that it was empty. With a small roll of his eyes, the waiter strolled over, filling the cup again with fresh brew. 

“What brings you to Leadville, Miles? I must say, you look a little out of place.”

Finding no reason to lie, Miles answered truthfully. 

“The death of Wally Rider,” he sipped at the cooling drink, finding it still too hot to enjoy. “I’m from D.C. but going freelance doesn’t leave room to be picky.” 

Eddie’s back stiffened, placing the coffee pot back on the machine with a little too much force. “Tragic, is it not? Though I must say it seems odd for you to come all this way for an accidental death.” Then he spun around to meet Miles’ gaze, holding the edge of the table in an iron grip. “One thing is for sure, Wally will definitely not be missed.” 

Miles raised an eyebrow, leaning in so their faces were just inches apart. “Why’d you say that?” 

“Walter Rider was a _slut_ and a _whore_.” 

The proper lilt of Eddie’s voice made the phrase seem so out of character and comical, Miles couldn’t help the laughter building in his chest. All he could do was hide it behind his mug, swallowing it down like the waiter’s abominable dessert. 

“Is – Is that so?” he snorted, biting his lip hard enough to hurt, trying to compose himself like a proper investigative reporter. 

“Well, I’m sure if you ask around,” Eddie stood straight again, “It will be very apparent that this is not exactly news. You had to be blind to not know he had relations with almost every woman here, single or not.” The man clutched a towel to his chest, looking to the ceiling as if staving off tears. “Poor, poor Jessica.” He clicked his tongue, “I heard she received leave for the funeral at least.”

This was more information than Miles could have ever expected, and from (presumably) Waylon’s employee no less! He wondered if the man knew this information as well. Surely as a local ( _if_ Eddie’s gossip was accurate) he would have known all of this. The man obviously was not a talented liar, but he was in the company of the Simon Peacock, professional spineless tool, so it may have been a front. Suddenly Waylon got a lot more interesting, and Miles had to take a deep, steadying breath; soft baby blues and possible ulterior motives were a _deadly_ combination. 

As he took another sip of his coffee, the chimes of the door rang loudly, and Chris, who had seemed soundly asleep just seconds ago, awoke with a jolt and charged the door. 

“Hey boy!” an excited voice called out, “Miss me?” 

The chair creaked obnoxiously under Miles’ weight as he scrambled to face the door, playing it off as a planned move and sliding an elbow along the counter top. Expecting to see the short man being assaulted by the slobbery monster, he was surprised to see the dog sitting patiently at his feet, tail wagging wildly, panting like mad, mimicking Eddie’s adoring gaze like even the sight of his master was enough to celebrate over. 

They locked eyes, and Waylon’s bright beam of a smile slowly turned into a look of distraught confusion. 

“Nice establishment you got here,” he took a blind bite of his pie, choking a bit at the oversized mouthful. The blond’s eyes narrowed, panning from Miles’ face, to the pie, then back again. “Good company too,” he mumbled around the scalding peach filling, gesturing towards the goofy mutt at his feet. 

“Miles,” he took a languid step forward with the grocery bags in his hands clutched to his body, “I was just about to phone you. Wally’s body is missing.”


	2. Take-Out

“What do you mean _missing_?”

Waylon stole a glance around the shop, noticing the patrons inside and Eddie chatting with a young girl at the very far end of the room. It didn’t seem like they were paying any attention to him, but as a precaution he gripped the bags a little tighter and gestured for Miles to follow him into the back room. He did so, Chris at his heels. 

The kitchen was even brighter and had even more personality than the front of the shop, if that was even possible. The walls were a soft orange, covered in awards and photos of all sorts, some containing Waylon, some Eddie and Chris, some with people he did not recognize. Pie containers, utensils, and flour were strung about the room, coating every surface that wasn’t already preoccupied by boxes of ripe fruit or freshly baked pies from that morning. It was extremely lived in, and obviously a point of pride for the baker. 

“He’s just… gone,” explained Waylon, unloading his groceries into a viridian refrigerator, “Simon just told me this morning. Police haven’t said much of anything yet.” 

Miles leant against the threshold of the door, arms and legs crossed in a casual stance. “And you’re telling me this _because_?” 

The blond stood, cocking an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you want to know these things? You’re investigating it too.” 

“Yeah, but like –“ he rubbed the back of his neck, averting his gaze to a piece of fruit hiding under one of the tables. “You didn’t seem to like me much on Tuesday, thought Grim might’ve told you to stay away.” 

The fridge shut slowly, and Waylon’s frown was almost soft, sympathetic. 

“He did,” he nodded, “But I’m my own man, and you seem good at your job. I want Walter to see justice. Or his wife, at least.” 

Miles smirked impishly, “Not too confident in Mr. Peacock’s abilities, it seems?” 

The pie maker’s face dropped suddenly, blanching in panic like he had said something unforgivable. 

“Th-There are certain aspects to this case that – that hinder his abilities somewhat, but I believe in him! I do! A-And I think if you two worked together, we’d have this solved in no time –“ 

“Easy,” Miles stepped forward, placing a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and giving him a gentle expression. Despite this being a friendly gesture, Waylon seemed to flinch, making Miles snap his hand back to his hip. “As much as I hate to say it, I think you’re right. I’m not a mountain man, and the locals seem to have this case down better than the fuzz.” 

Eddie walked in then, arms piled high in dirty dishes and humming a doo-wop tune, only pausing when he noticed the two of them. “Oh, hello darling! I didn’t even see you get in.” 

“Hey Ed,” Waylon took a step away from Miles, “Busy morning?” 

“Oh not too bad, although Christopher has been causing quite the ruckus!” 

Waylon laughed (an oh so _perfect_ laugh) and at the sound of his name the dog trotted over, laying across Eddie's pressed slacks and spotless dress shoes. Never before had Miles seen Waylon so relaxed, an affectionate look on his face as he chatted with Eddie and watched his dog sprawl across the other man’s feet. 

The realization that Eddie the waiter and Waylon the pie maker were involved hit him in the face like a sack of bricks. Suddenly it made sense why Waylon had looked so perturbed at his attempts of flirting. 

“No steak for him later, I guess,” he spoke in a faux stern voice, pointing a finger at the dozing dog. “Are you staying for dinner?” 

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” the waiter began soaking the dishes, scrubbing the worst from a pot with a dish wand. “There is a new episode of Agree to the Gown and Mother invited me over for tea. I think we might watch it together.” 

“Sounds fun,” Waylon pat him on the shoulder as he walked passed, moving to a cutting board covered in fruit on the far table. “Tell her I said hi for me?” 

“Oh Waylon,” Eddie sighed, “I do wish you would come visit her, she is so fond of you.” 

“How long have you two been together?” 

Eddie dropped a dish, sending it clattering to the floor to shatter into thousands of tiny fragments. A few just narrowly missed Chris, and the big dog let out a deep yelp as he jumped to his feet. 

After that, there was silence. Pure, unbroken silence that stretched on for a good ten seconds before Eddie blushed profusely and began apologizing.

“Gosh, I am so sorry!” he reached into a cupboard and pulled out a broom and a dustpan, sweeping up the mess he had made whilst muttering under his breath. 

“Eddie and I aren’t a couple,” Waylon didn’t look nearly as shaken, continuing put on an apron while avoiding the mess on the floor. “Just good friends, I can see where you got confused.” 

“Wha – Pardon me?” Eddie looked offended then, “You can see where he got confused? Waylon! What does that mean?” he huffed loudly, mumbling to himself as he picked up a whole pie and stormed out into the dining area, Christopher in tow.

As if this town could not get any stranger, it seemed Eddie the waiter, hopelessly in love with Waylon the pie maker, had absolutely no idea of his infatuation. From the way he spoke of the man earlier, to the ardour in his eyes as he watched him work on his pie, Miles could see that Eddie had a textbook case of denial, and he couldn’t help but pity him. What this didn’t explain, however, was why Waylon had been so flustered at his prior advances, and why he seemed so collected now. 

“Sorry about that,” he shoved his hands in his pockets, stepping towards the table so he could see what Waylon was doing, “You’re the boss then, eh?” 

Miles watched as Waylon mixed dry ingredients with some eggs and vanilla, whipping it together with a rubber spatula, careful to let nothing spill over the edge. 

“Yeah, this was my dad’s shop,” he gestured to a picture high upon the wall, a young black-haired boy next to a heavyset woman and a lanky man in a bright red apron, all three of them covered in flour and holding up a pie with a single slice missing. “My heart’s in computers, but after he passed I felt like I should keep the legacy alive. Mortgage is paid off, and I enjoy the work so,” he poured flour across the cutting board, spreading it out with a rolling pin, “Why not?” 

“That’s you?” Miles couldn’t believe it, and it took lots of squinting and top-tier inspection to see the similarities between the boy and the man in front of him. 

“Yup, I was probably eight or nine there,” a sad smile adorned his face, “He had always heard about the American dream, but when him and my mom met it was like a sign that he should follow it. So they made the move from Seoul to Leadville and had me a year later.” 

Now that he was up close, he could definitely see it. Waylon was not nearly as tall as his father, taking after his mother in that sense, but both had the same dark eyes and round face. Upon closer inspection he noticed a tease of black roots under the pie maker’s wildly curly locks of sandy blond. Every little detail he learned about the man just added to the curiousness of it all, and Miles found himself even more intrigued than before. 

“Wish I had a story like that.” 

Waylon looked up from his work of flattening dough, using a rolling pin to thin it out. 

“I’m sure yours is just as interesting.” 

“Yeah, not so much,” he chuckled to himself, “My moms are from Queens, adopted me when I was six months old. Don’t know anything about my birth parents,” he gestured to his face, “Bit of a mutt, I think. Tracked my birth father down in Mexico, only ever talked on the phone.” 

What possessed the journalist to tell him this? We may never know. A man of few words, Miles didn’t realize he was spewing out word vomit until it was too late, and Waylon was already sending that soft, sad smile in his direction. His heart was aflutter with butterflies – it made him feel like puking for real. 

“See? That’s interesting.” He picked up the crust and set it in a pie pan, smoothing it out so it was flat against the edges. “Maybe your story’s more of a mystery than a slice-of-life.” 

The words took Miles aback completely. For a simple pie maker he sure had a lot of hobbies, and a way with words. Completely at peace with his pie making, the tranquil back and fourth of his rolling pin over crushed blueberries and sugar, there wasn’t a sign of the nervous man from a few days prior. He seemed older – or maybe not older, but wiser. He was in his element, and even the presence of a stranger couldn’t change that. 

“Guess so,” he sat at the stool across from the table, fingers interlocked on the counter. “So what’s the plan with to find our AWOL dead guy?”

“Find out who he was seeing at the time, I guess.” He scooped the mash berries into a bowl, “Should be easy enough.” 

Miles sucked his teeth. “Not from what I've heard, Eddie said he really found his way around.” 

Waylon looked completely surprised, almost missing the cutting board as he lay down another ball of dough. “ _Eddie_ told you that?” 

The journalist couldn’t help a smirk, “Yeah, in so many words.” 

The pie maker shook his head, clicking his tongue. “He’s such a gossip…” 

Now, Miles had never been interested in baking. In school he took shop instead of home economics. When he moved out, he lived off pizza and ramen for a good year before his best friends Blake and Lynn convinced him to move in with them, worried for his health. The Food Network wasn’t even a station that showed up on his cable bill, but the sight of Waylon cooking was… well, he couldn’t tear his eyes away for even a second. 

At first it seemed strange how he flattened more dough, cutting it into thin strips and patterned curves, until he began placing it with the utmost care onto the top of the pie filling. Concentration was eminent on his face, with the way his tongue barely poked out from between his teeth, and the way his deep blue eyes narrowed in on the pie, and the pie alone. 

“Want to help?” 

Miles startled, obviously caught staring. Quick to react, he managed a nod, and stood up to assist the baker in his work. 

_‘What are you doing, you moron!’_ he scolded himself, _‘You’re gonna fuck it up!’_

But Waylon showed him how and where to place them, which pieces could be lifted and which were finished, and eventually he placed small, freckled hands over Miles’ tan set of his own, steadying them while also waking up those annoying butterflies in his stomach from earlier. 

“I think he likes you, y’know.” 

_‘Smooth, Upshur. Real smooth.’_

“Who, Eddie?” Waylon’s eyebrow rose in confusion, obviously a habit of his, “Yeah, we’ve been friends for years.” 

“No, I mean he seems into you.” 

Suddenly the steady hands shook violently, tearing off a chunk of the dough and dropping it somewhere beside the pie. 

“Eddie? Edward? What – No! No way, i-it’s not like that, we just –“ 

“Hey,” Miles placed a hand on the small of his back, “Don’t worry about it, I shouldn’t just make jumps like that.” 

Not looking too convinced, Waylon gave a small nod before adding the finishing touches to the latticed pie. “Look at that, you’re a natural.” 

Miles chuckled, wiping floury hands on the front of his jeans. “Well, I had a bit of help from a professional.” 

Waylon let out a laugh of his own, that same laugh from earlier. Genuine, eyes crinkling at the edges, teeth on display, cheeks a bit rosy – Miles mentally slapped himself. When this case was over, he would be out of here, leaving Waylon behind. He couldn’t afford a crush on some stranger he would only be with for a week. 

Then Waylon leaned over to put the pie in the oven, giving the reporter a good display of his rear end in those tight jeans. So maybe, just maybe, Miles could indulge just this once. 

“So you’re not seeing anybody then?” 

He regretted it almost immediately as he said it. The baker’s face seemed to droop, turning to something confused and bitter. It was obvious enough he was trying to mask it a bit, turning away from Miles and busying himself with cleaning up the work station. 

“Yeah, it’s just me and Chris.” The look worsened, “There… there was someone, but she’s not here anymore.” 

Another pang of regret surged through Miles, and he knew he had to quickly change the subject if he wanted to keep on Waylon’s good side. 

“You know, Chris sure does seem to love you, but you haven’t pet him once since I’ve been here.” 

Waylon shot back like the electric mixer burnt him, hands gripping the edge of the countertop. He looked panicked, slowly forcing a smile and making his posture relax. 

“I’m allergic, deathly allergic.” 

“You got a dog you were allergic to?” 

“He was a gift.” 

“Can’t even touch him?” 

“Can’t even touch him.” 

“Oh,” Miles nodded, tugging at one of his earrings like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. “He seems happy, so I guess it’s whatever.” 

Waylon held back a relieved sigh, stepping back so he could rest his slackened form rest on the sink edge behind him. “Yeah, Eddie takes good care of him too though. I used to feel bad, but he just seems content watching movies or eating dinner together, so I think it’s okay.” 

If that wasn’t an adorable sight if Miles had ever imagined one. Waylon eating ice cream in his pyjamas, the giant dog almost twice his size rested on the cushion beside him with a bowl of his own, neither of them touching but both of them invested in the buddy cop flic on the screen. In this imagined scene, there was even a bit of space between them, just enough for Miles to squeeze in if he had one arm on Chris, and the other around Waylon’s – 

But who was he kidding? It was absolutely never going to happen, especially since all he’s done since he got to Leadville was _be_ an ass, then make an ass of _himself_. He should focus on the rotting corpse that seemed to have up and disappeared, not the pie maker currently staring up at him like he had just said something insane. 

“Everything okay, Miles?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he shook the thoughts away, “All good, but I was just thinking we should probably head to the morgue, see if they got anything on tape. When are you off?” 

Waylon undid bow at the back of his apron then pulled it over his head. “I can leave whenever, just have to tell Eddie about the oven, then we can head out.” 

Avoiding the burly man’s questions and conspicuous glances as they tried to leave, it took quite a bit of sidestepping before they finally made their way to where Miles’ car was waiting. The red paint searing from the direct sunlight, extremely hot to the touch, and only shaded partially by the odd mountain shape of the sign outside the shop.

“This is…” 

“Beautiful?” Miles opened the door for Waylon like a chauffer, “The most extravagant vehicle you’ve ever had the pleasure of riding in?” 

“Exactly like Simon said it would be.” 

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes, shutting the door behind the blond with a little too much force. Simon knew shit-all, and he was a bit upset that Waylon had taken the man’s words to heart. 

“She seems a little intimidating at first,” he slipped in the driver’s side, “But I’m telling you, she’s been my trusty sidekick longer than anybody.” 

“She?” 

Again, one dark eyebrow was cocked in Miles’ direction, but the usual frown was replaced by something more akin to amusement.

“Damn right,” he patted the dashboard, “Fourth woman I ever loved.” 

“Fourth?” asked Waylon, “Who’re the first three?” 

“Mrs. and Dr. Upshur,” he counted on two fingers, “and Diana Ross. Who else would it be?” 

The short ride to the morgue was passed by with quiet tunes from the radio and a bit of banter back and forth. It seemed Waylon, when not caught red-handed in an illegal situation, was much more fun, and could even match Miles’ wit when it counted. This didn’t help his minor infatuation with the man at all, but soon enough they were at the small grey building, and Simon was still nowhere in sight. 

“Hey Mr. Manera,” Waylon greeted the receptionist, “We heard about Walter’s body going missing.” 

“Terrible times we’re livin’ in, Park,” the bearded man slurred, looking on the verge of sleep. “Can’t trust anybody to stick ‘round, not ‘ven the dead.” 

“Well, do you mind if we check out the security footage from last night?” 

They waited a moment - no response. 

“Mr. Manera? Frank?” 

Waylon shook his shoulder, jumping back into Miles’ chest as the half-lucid man let out a loud snore. He then turned to Miles, shrugging his shoulders, and led him into a dark hallway across from the coroner’s office. 

“Is he okay?” 

Waylon chuckled, “Oh, Frank? Yeah, he’s just stoned all the time.” He turned the knob on the far door, pushing it open with so much enthusiasm it was like he knew it would be unlocked. “Whoever did this probably knew it, that’s why it’s so easy to sneak in here all the time.” 

He sat down in the rolling chair in front of a set of computers, all propped on different VHS players and aging terribly. Still, Waylon’s fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, inputting passwords and bypassing security walls like it was child’s play. 

Miles leaned in, one hand on the table, the other on the back of the chair. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were good with computers.” 

Even in the dimly lit room, face only illuminated by the slight blue glow of the monitor, the blond’s blush was unmistakable. 

“Yeah, I went to college for it, always did well in high school info tech too. Guess it just stuck with me all these years.” 

A window popped on the screen. After being enlarged, Miles could make out the shapes of the lobby through the grainy monitor, though not much was clear since the lights were out.

“This is the footage from last night?” 

Waylon nodded, scrubbing through the video until there was nothing left. “Nobody came through the front but maybe… maybe they didn’t go in through the lobby.” 

Sure enough, as he moved through footage of the parking lot and an alley outside, a car pulled up next to the building. With only the light from the streetlamp and a bit of a zoom in the footage, the only discernable features were its black colour, and a parking pass taped to the windshield from the inside. 

“Hold on,” he enhanced the image as two people exited the vehicle, faces obscured by shadows and the angle of the building. “Shit, too dark.” 

“Wait,” Miles let his hand fall to the baker’s shoulder. “Zoom in on the window.” 

Waylon did as he was asked, once again enhancing the paused footage to focus in on the windshield instead of the culprits. Miles pointed to it, the small white mark on an otherwise blue and black screen. 

“What’s the symbol on that parking pass? I’ve seen it before.” 

“That’s… the Murkoff logo,” he spun to face Miles, “But they’re a pharmaceutical company, what would they want with Walter’s body?” 

“Free test subjects? Beats me.” He put on his journalist face; eyebrows tensed and gaze completely serious. “There’s no camera in the morgue or in the alley?” 

“Nope,” Waylon sighed, “Things like this don’t really happen here, we’re not exactly prepared for shady corporations to brake into our morgue and steal our late loved ones.” 

“I’ll never understand this hick town.” 

The sound of the smooth, accented voice made both Miles and Waylon jump, spinning around to see Simon, dressed in his normal cheap suit and tie combination, inspecting the dirt under his nail in the doorway. 

“Christ, Golem, give a guy a little warning next time, would’ya? I almost pissed myself.” 

“Sorry about that, but you _did_ start without me.” Simon stalked into the room, leaning in on the other side of Waylon to inspect the screen. “Murkoff, eh? Should’ve known this was those sneaky bastards.” 

“They have a reputation?” 

“And then some,” explained Waylon, “They have a facility up on Mount Massive, an old mental hospital where they test drugs and house inpatients. I’m sure they have no shortage of lab rats, maybe this is a private affair.” 

“A vendetta? Please,” Simon shook his head, “Walter was a sorry sod, but there wasn’t much special about him. Try and remember the make and model of the car, we should look into Murkoff further.” 

Waylon turned white as a ghost, standing from the chair on unsteady legs like he was suddenly hit by a bout of nausea. Peacock simply left the room, heels clicking on the linoleum floor as he left, but Miles slowed a bit to offer Waylon some support in the form of an arm over his shoulders. 

“You okay, dude?”

“I will be,” he inhaled deeply, “It’s just that Murkoff are some scary fuckers. I don’t know if we should get mixed up in all of this if they’re involved.” 

Waylon looked genuinely scared. Miles wondered just how long he had been involved in Peacock’s business. He knew it took some time getting used to things, he sure as hell didn’t develop a knack for breaking and entering overnight, but a reaction like this meant Waylon was much greener than he let on, or Murkoff were some _seriously_ scary fuckers.

“Listen,” he stopped, turning Waylon’s shoulders so they were facing each other. “You don’t have to do this. Simon and I can get on if you’re not up for it, I understand.” 

“No, I’ll be fine,” he shook his head, “Things like this don’t happen here, I want to be as much help as I can.” 

Miles didn’t want to keep things from Waylon. The determination in his eyes reminded Miles of his junior years, and he would hate to kill that spark, but there was something off about the way both him and Simon spoke the name Murkoff. Apparently, it was the ‘Bloody Mary’ of Leadville, maybe even Colorado as a whole. It would probably be best if Miles finished this one on his own. 

A whistle brought their attention back to the task at hand, and as they exited into the main lobby there were stopped by the sound of a raised voice. 

“I don’t care that you don’t know where he is, I want all the information you have!” 

Frank was almost on the floor, looking completely startled and dazed as a short, mousey brunette berated him. She was dressed in all camouflage, a duffel back thrown over one shoulder and a knapsack on her back, staring daggers into a man who probably couldn’t even tell you the time of day. 

“J-Jessica?” stammered Waylon, and her eyes met his own she let out an exhausted huff. 

“Waylon, Simon, any chance you or your friend know the whereabouts of my cheating bastard of a husband?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally things are picking up! I have lots planned for this fic, and I think it's going to end up way longer than anticipated. Just as a warning, I know Pushing Daisies isn't too severe, but I'm planning on the violence in this AU to be amped up like it is in the game. Not too bad, but enough that it feels like a good middle ground between the two. The slow-burn is pretty slow, but I already have an ending all planned so I hope things work out, fingers crossed!!
> 
> I also just realized that not only do some people face claim Lee Pace (who plays Ned/Waylon's character in Pushing Daisies) for Miles, but some other roles have been reversed as well! Eddie is in place of Olive, a short blond like Waylon, and some others will be more obvious in later chapters, just thought I'd point that out!


	3. Restlessness

Jessica Grey-Rider reminded Miles of his uncle Meryl. Not his bad traits, like his displeasure when his sister married another woman, or when they adopted a baby of unknown descent. She reminded him of that tough, take-no-shit-give-no-shit attitude he always carried. Her back was straight as a rod, shoes shined, not a wrinkle in sight despite her long plane ride back from overseas. The way she grabbed Simon’s ear, pulling him down so he would hear her loud and clear about how much she didn’t care to hear his sympathies, that reminded him of Uncle Meryl too. Maybe it was a military thing. 

Waylon had asked her about Murkoff, if maybe Walter had given his body over to science. She went off, telling him that she wouldn’t know, and also saying she should have known Murkoff was involved. 

Apparently Walter had worked there a few months back. He was a nurse, but not a very good one. Rumours spread about him sleeping with a therapist while on the clock, patients going without their lunch and regular meds, causing a small riot to break out that resulted in two chairs broken, one sprained wrist, and a missing stapler that was discovered two weeks later when a patient _really_ didn’t feel like eating his broccoli. After just six months on the job, Walter was let go.

But Jessica was a busy woman, and she had people to see now that she was back in Leadville; friends, she specified, good friends who were deserving of her time unlike her good-for-nothing corpse of a husband. 

She left the three of them to it. Her information was a start, not much to go on, but Miles had managed a lot more with a lot less. When he first heard the story it had only seemed a little suspicious; drunk after a night of partying, Walter decides to drive himself home to get some sleep before work. He doesn’t come in the next day, and his boss is furious. How could Walter miss yet _another_ day after he had raked him over the coals so bad last time? 

His co-worker Dennis is the one to find him. Obscured by bushes and his car, apparently nobody walking by that morning saw legs sticking out from under the garage door, or heard Walter screaming as it crushed his organs and sucked the life out of him. The cable holding the door up had snapped, and police assumed he had left his house keys at some party or bar he had been to the night before, since he had tried to squeeze under the garage door and didn’t have any keys on him at the time. 

But the garage door was brand new - the house was brand new. There was no way a three-inch thick cable just snapped like that. There is no way nobody heard Walter cry out for help with his last dying breathes as the heavy gate pinned him to the concrete. 

Nothing added up, and it all lead to Murkoff. 

The case was almost giftwrapped. Not only was it just get juicer and juicer with every passing clue they found, but it sounded like a fairy tale – the kind that gets the leading man a book deal, or a job with The New York Times where he can be close to his family, or even both. 

Lying on his hotel bed, staring up at the ugly popcorn ceiling, he can see it now. A handsome knight rolls into town, solves the mystery, defeats the evil, and saves the princess – or prince, in his case. 

Groaning, he rolled over onto his side, clutching his pillow a little tighter to his chest. He shouldn’t be getting ahead of himself like this. Murkoff are some big baddies and he needs to be smart before he rolls in there, guns blazing like this is some small-town scam deal where Mrs. Rotinski has to pay an extra $4 on mozzarella. It’s more complicated than that. It’s his big break. It could make his career, or destroy him. 

The glowing red numbers on his alarm clock read 1:43 AM, but he knows time must be broken because it said 1:32 AM an hour ago. He is never going to get sleep at this rate, mind buzzing with a million thoughts and images that won’t rest either, so he rolls out of bed, pulls on his jeans and jacket, and he grabs the keys to the Wrangler as he toes on some sneakers. 

The roads are empty. It takes him about 30 minutes to get to the foot of the mountain from the hotel, driving generously over the speed limit, but when he shows up there is a barricade blocking his path. 

**‘ROAD CLOSED’** in big, red block letters the sign on the barricade reads, **‘AUTHORIZED PERSONEL ONLY’**

He pulls the Jeep to the side of the road, hiding her behind a large outcrop of trees, and gives her one last pet before he vaults the barricade and begins his descent up the mountain. 

If he had known this would be a hike, he would have brought a better jacket, but he came all this way so he might as well finish what he started. Miles thinks the sights aren’t too bad, either. Up this high he can see every star in the cloudless sky, clear from lights and pollution that he is so accustomed to at home. The moon looks bigger, too. It gives him the feeling that maybe if he ever manages to find the top of the mountain, he could reach out and touch it. 

But eventually he finds what he is looking for, and the moon is no closer than before. Forty-five minutes up the path and a blister later, an unmarked trail leads him onto another well-paved road, and he follows it for only a few minutes before Mount Massive Asylum comes into view. 

Sure, it’s eerily quiet, and Miles is pretty sure he hasn’t heard a single animal sound in the last five minutes, but that’s not the most unsettling thing about the place. If it weren’t for a few lights on, the building would still look abandoned, and the way it looms and casts a high shadow, long enough to shroud the whole garden from the moon’s glow, that’s what really gives him the creeps. For the past hour or so of his journey the path was illuminated only by the natural Colorado sky, but now all he can see his dim, ugly, artificial yellow and it burns his retinas.

For a moment he wonders if he should stop there. The wind picks up, and he is sure if he looked in a mirror he would have some heinous bags under his eyes, but he treks on. There was no reason for a multi-billion dollar company to hide out in a shithole like this and not have something hidden away. 

Ignoring the searing pain as a blister on his heel pops, he climbs a ladder and over a scaffolding. They must have been renovating, and it makes it even easier for him to slip in a half-open window. 

When he enters it’s… equally as quiet. 

“Okay Miles,” he takes a deep breath in, “Get it together.” 

He holds his breath the rest of the way. When he lands, he assumes he’s probably in some kind of leisure room. There’s a couch, a television, a couple rows of bookshelves with all kinds of titles he doesn’t recognize, but nothing of importance so he ignores it all and slips into the hallway, trying to keep track of what his surroundings look like in case he needs to make a quick getaway. 

The hallway is long, and most of the rooms are locked. Miles has improved with his stealth abilities over the years, but he still flinches every time a step sits wrong with the aging floorboards, or when he hears a noise and involuntarily slams himself against a wall to hide. There isn’t much to look at until he gets to the hall and a door finally gives, revealing three sleeping figures inside. 

He stands stock still, hoping they won’t notice him, but one of them sits up from the bed closest to him, rubbing the sleep from their eyes with a yawn. It looks to be a man, younger than Miles, with a shaved head and bony arms. He looks confused, the light from the hall just barely hitting his eyes as he takes in the reporter. 

“Is it morning already?” he asks, voice light and youthful and god, maybe he’s a lot younger than Miles thought. 

“No,” he responds quickly, “Just bed check, go back to sleep.” 

The kid pushed the blankets down, sitting straighter and furrowing his dark eyebrows at Miles in the doorway. 

“You don’t work here.” 

Miles opened his mouth to respond, but was quickly interrupted. 

“Are you here to kill us?” 

He wants to hiss at the kid, yell at him to keep his goddamn voice down, but he is looking at him with no emotion, a shell of what a boy his age should look like. All he can manage to do is shake his head. 

“Wouldn’t be so lucky.” 

Miles was frozen, absolutely appalled at the words. This boy would rather die than stay here; he was hoping Miles was here to strangle him in his sleep, or force him some pills, or worse. Something else was definitely going on here, bigger than Walter Rider, bigger than Leadville – hell, probably even bigger than Murkoff. 

“What’s your name?” 

The boy rolled over. “Billy,” he said, facing away from the door, and pulled his blanket back over his shoulders. 

“Billy,” he swallowed, “I-I’ll come back for you. I’ll get you out of here.” 

He waited, but no response came. Footsteps sounded from down the hall, accompanied by the flickering of lights and a crack of thunder, practically tearing Miles from his horrified pause. He jumped from the spot, lunging towards a door that was, thankfully, unlocked and closed it as quietly as possible behind him. 

“One-hundred millilitres should do the trick. If it’s too much, don’t worry about it.” 

He held his breath as the steps paused, pressing his back flat against the wall as whoever was passing down the hall closed Billy’s door, and kept walking.

“We’ve never had so many expendables, I’m sure…” 

The voices trailed off and Miles let out his breath, relieved to live another day outside a jail cell. When his eyes opened he took in the room, an office of some sort with a computer and a desk in front of a rolling chair. He approached it slowly, checking the room for computers before booting up the computer. 

“Shit,” he hissed, realizing that every user was password locked. “What I wouldn't do to have Waylon here right about now...” Miles searched around for a sticky note, a journal, anything that might have the code on it. The first two drawers had nothing but pens and blank stationary, but the bottom was a filing cabinet of some kind. Sorting through the bunch, he found the one he was looking for and pulled it from the pocket. 

_‘HOPE, WILLIAM’_

Just as he began to open it, the footsteps returned, sending him into a blind panic. Another flash of lightening, followed shortly by a burst of thunder, and he was out of the window and onto another scaffolding before the door could even open. 

Unlike earlier, the sky was now grey and clouded, the moon having disappeared completely. Miles tucked the file into his jacket and pulled out his phone, turning on the flashlight before scaling another ladder down to the floor and booking it in the direction of his car. 

All he could do was ignore the mud splashing up his jeans, rain soaking his hair and chilling him to the bone. There was something really off about this place, even more than any of them had realized, and he needed Waylon to know before they got any further. In record time he made it to the Jeep and onto the highway, heading in the direction of Leadville Pie Emporium. 

Of course it would be closed. It’s the early hours of the morning, and the sun has just started to rise. He knocked a few times, waited, wiping the drops from his forehead in vain as more quickly replaced them. The manila folder under his arm was no doubt soaked through and ruined, but the evidence was still there, and hopefully somewhat salvageable. By the third round of knocking, a light turned on in the kitchen, and suddenly Waylon’s figure came into view. 

He looked more than a little confused as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, staring at Miles through the glass and watching the rain pelt him. Miles almost felt bad. Waylon was dressed in his pyjamas, obviously still half-asleep, and probably a bit worried why a drenched journalist, who obviously hasn’t slept in a few days, has randomly shown up at his apartment at the asscrack of dawn. 

Looking a bit more awake at the state of the reporter, Waylon quickly opened the trio of locks on the door and cocked his head, “Is everything alright?” 

“M-Murkoff –“ Miles manages, but the heat in his Jeep is broken and he can no longer feel his face. “I-I was at M-Mount Massive.” He held out the file, and that was all Waylon needed before he ushered Miles inside. 

“Are you alright? Do you want some coffee?” 

“P-Please,” he replied, but god was that ever an understatement. Miles would _kill_ for a cup of coffee right now; it’s just what he needs to get back on track. 

Quietly, Waylon poured Miles a fresh cup and handed it to him. He immediately pulled it close, hunched over so some of the steam might unfreeze his lips and nose. 

“You’re soaked.” 

“N-No shit –“ 

Waylon rolled his eyes before motioning for the other man to stay still, then turned back around into the kitchen and disappeared. He was only gone a few minutes before he came back with a pair of soft, brightly-coloured sweatpants and a hoodie. 

Miles took them, but not before giving Waylon an incredulous look at the obnoxiously pink pants. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he shook his head, “They’re not mine.” 

That left Miles with more questions than answers, but he is pretty sure his legs are so stiff that if he doesn’t move soon they’ll be stuck that way, so he stands with the clothes and makes his way to the washroom. 

His jacket saved him from the worst of it, so he takes it off and throws the hoodie on over his shirt. It’s extremely thick and warm, and he can see now in the mirror that it’s a college hoodie; ‘Berkeley’ it says in bright red yellow letters, and he files that information away for later. His jeans, however, are a whole different story. Mud is caked across his calves and the back of his knees, even making it somewhat up his thighs. Anything is better than this - even bright pink sweatpants that are surprisingly luxurious and, yeah, far too big to be Waylon’s. They’re soft, and worn, but cozy as all hell, so he folds his clothes under his arm and steps out into the pie shop. 

Waylon has a cup of coffee in his hand, and looks much more lively than he had when he first opened the door. There are dark circles under his eyes that are nothing in comparison to his own, but it still irks him a bit, and he wonders what the blond was up to last night that had him awake. Maybe he's just not a morning guy.

Right now he’s leant over the counter, picking at the sopping file and carefully pulling papers apart. He’s a fast reader, Miles can see his eyes skimming over page after page until they stop, blow wide open, and reread the page over again. 

“Find something?” 

Miles took a step forward as Waylon’s hand rose to his mouth, covering it with a look of clear disbelief. 

“Where did you get this?” 

“Mount Massive,” he stepped around the table to get a better look at the papers, “I found a way in, talked to a patient, pretty miserable guy, had to get out before somebody found me.” He pulled the top paper away to read it, “Think this was his.” 

_MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS_  
PROJECT WALRIDER  
Mount Massive CO  
Case Number: 174  
Patient Initials: WPH, “Billy” 

The rest is a bunch of abbreviations and names of medications that Miles couldn’t pronounce for the life of him. It seems to be a list of treatments that they use to keep him stable, to treat whatever condition the boy has. Not much looks out of place, other than the fact the language is a little sterile, and they never use his name, only ‘patient’ or his case number; Miles chalks that down to it being an official document. 

But when he looks over at Waylon, there are tears welling in his eyes, and that hand over his mouth is there to hold back sobs. When Miles rests a hand on his shoulder, all he does in reaction is tense and shake his head. He’s no longer in bright pink women’s sweatpants and an obnoxiously contrasting electric blue hoodie in the front of a pie shop, Waylon looks horrified, and Miles is back to fifth grade when his mom received the call about Uncle Meryl’s accident. 

“Th-They’re going to kill him.” 

“What?” he ripped the paper from Waylon’s hands, examining the bleeding words. 

_MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS_  
PROJECT WALRIDER  
Mount Massive CO  
Case Number: 174  
Patient Initials: WPH, “Billy”  
Initial Date of Patient Consult: 2013.09.12  
Patient Age: 19  
Gender: Male  
Observing Physician: Dr. Carl Houston (DBNR) 

_THERAPY STATUS:  
Patient is cooperative and submissive in all points of therapy and treatment. After multiple breakdowns and fights with staff, he has decided to undergo therapy as directed by Dr. Trager and myself. This may be the result of the new stage 4 hormone schedule, but results are still being collected from other patients. Currently part of the Blaire and Manaf Scholarship program. _

_DIAGNOSIS:_

_Spirometry revealed no bronchial accumulation._

_Erythrocyte therapy may be a possibility. Consider; lobotomy attempt as like patient 112 with updated nanophiles._

_MRI revealed arrhythmic REM/NREM cycle. (Last scanned 2013.08.23)_

_NOTES:  
I believe 174 (Hope, William) would be a good candidate for the morphogenic engine program, but Dr. Trager is not as hopeful. In his words Billy is “a lost cause” and “we shouldn’t waste more time and resources on a barren mare.” _

_An MRI and autopsy led by Dr. Eisner will take place 2013.10.5 where all nanite samples will be extracted, as well as tissue and fluid for further testing since we are still in the early stages of stage 4 hormone schedules. If we get anything out of this it will hopefully be a step towards stage 5, and not a step backwards._

_Director Haas is in charge of notifying the patient’s next of kin. One more update should suffice.  
_

“Miles,” the small voice of the pie maker breaks him away, “He – He’s only nineteen, we can’t let them – we can’t –“ 

“Hey,” Miles cooed, shushing him quietly, “You know the kid?” 

Waylon nodded, “Tiffany’s son, Billy, h-he was admitted a few months ago.” He swallowed thickly, “She owns the natural path store down the street.” 

Miles scanned over the documents one last time, making sure he read the words _lobotomy_ and _autopsy_ right before they made any quick decisions. 

“We have to tell her! We have to tell the police, oh god –“ 

“Waylon,” again, Miles let his hands fall to the shorter man’s shoulders, gently squeezing the tension from his muscles before he could spiral into something of a panic. “We can’t tell anybody, especially not Billy’s mom.” 

The way the blond’s eyes narrowed and hardened, it was as if Miles had said something to offend him. 

“Call Simon –“ 

“Who will tell you the same thing!” He groaned, throwing his arms up in the air before digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Just… listen, please.” 

Waylon did as he was told, but wasn’t looking too happy about it. His lips were pouty, and his eyes were still watery from crying, but his glare was 100% serious and stone cold. 

“This is bigger than we thought, much bigger than Leadville. Look,” he pulled a document out, pointing to the state seal adorning the corner. “Who knows how deep Murkoff goes. I’m telling you that Simon will say the same, we _can’t_ get more people involved, somebody _will_ get hurt.” 

As the words left his mouth, he couldn’t help give Waylon the once-over, taking in his baggy pyjama pants, soft cheeks, the way his roots peeked out from under sandy bangs. He lived a normal, picket-fence-and-apple-pie life, and taking that away from him would be tragic, even if it meant Billy and Tiffany Hope were safe from Murkoff's merciless clutches. 

“Maybe… maybe you should sit this one out, too.” 

Fingers pushed Miles’ shoulder, sending his stiff body onto the countertop and knocking over his still-steaming cup of coffee with a yelp. 

“Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?” snapped the blond, “You think you can come in here, take over, act like some knight in shining armour because you have a badge and a pen-name? Over my dead fucking body!” 

All he could do was hold his shoulder and stare at Waylon who was becoming increasingly distraught. 

“You can’t just – These are people I love! This is my home! My family! And you just think you can roll into town and fix everything by yourself? I’m not some damsel, you know, and I hate how ever since Lisa died everybody’s walking on eggshells around me!” He wrapped his arms around himself, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. “I just want things to go back to how they were! I’m helping, whether you like it or not!” 

At a loss for words for the first time in his life, Miles squeezed his shoulder and nodded slowly, shutting his gaping mouth with a _‘clack’_. 

“Y-Yeah, of course, as long as you know the risks involved.” He gulped, “I’m sorry Way, really, I shouldn’t have just showed up, and I shouldn’t treat you like you’re –“ 

The smaller man raised his hand, silencing the brunet. 

“It’s fine,” he sighed, “I’m sorry too. This is important, and I don't have experience like you or Simon, so I get why you’re worried.” Wiping his cheeks, he turned around to pick up a washcloth and brought it towards the spilt coffee. “Things have just been so weird lately…” 

In companionable silence, they worked together. Miles cleaned up the still-damp documents and helped soak up the remaining coffee. When it was over, he stuck around. Without a word, Miles wiped down the counter completely while Waylon made more coffee, and when it was over they moved to the back and started prepping pies. Unused to being up at this hour, Miles felt a serene calm that he usually didn’t associate with zero sleep. It was like his brain was on autopilot, only moving out of rhythm when Waylon softly directed him while he cut fruit and mixed it into a bowl. 

“Hey, you okay?” Waylon asked, gently placing a hand on the other man’s chest. 

The sleep he had been missing suddenly caught up to him. His eyes were heavy, his movements sluggish, and the dim lights of the kitchen were starting to make his temples throb. Pushing down a yawn, he nodded, smiling softly at Waylon. 

“Yeah, just tired. Didn’t get much sleep.” 

“Did you get any?” 

Miles winced, but nodded, continuing his work of cutting the stems of some strawberries. 

“Come on.” 

Waylon gripped his hand, making him drop the dull knife he had been holding. When did that happen? Then they were at the threshold between the kitchen and a set of stairs. The blond’s hand was warm in his, and he didn’t take it away until they were at the very top and he gently prodded Miles onto a cushiony floral couch. 

“Get some sleep, okay?” 

A throw blanket was draped across him, and he couldn’t recall a time where he felt this content or cozy to be sleeping on a couch. 

“We’ll talk later.” 

The steps creaked under Waylon’s weight as he made his way back to the kitchen, leaving Miles alone with his thoughts. His hand still felt tingly from where the baker had touched him, his thoughts swimming as the adrenaline and caffeine from earlier worked its way out of his system. He couldn’t help but feel guilty, waking Waylon up with such terrible news, upsetting him, interrupted his day because he was brash, and immature, and just couldn’t wait to show him what he found. 

Then Waylon’s tear-filled eyes, and the way he clutched his hands to his chest as he spoke of ‘Lisa’, and how people had been treating him. It made sense, now that he thought about it. There was a photo on the television stand across the room, Waylon with his arm around a beautiful girl with big hair and dark skin, much taller than himself. Miles wondered if this was Lisa, a gorgeous woman who no doubt saw what he did in Waylon, but was taken from him before it was her time. That explained his closed-in lifestyle, his strange relationship with death, but he couldn’t help but ponder how she could have died. Maybe it was an accident, or a mystery that went unsolved, and Waylon was now trying to make up for the case he couldn’t crack. 

It wasn’t his place to pry, he knew that much. Still, as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep, thoughts of the once boring and unremarkable town transformed into something greater, and it both thrilled and terrified him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!! I wrote the first two chapters while on vacation, and came back while halfway through the third, so there was a bit of a delay. Hopefully now that things are settled, I can get back on track. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and messages by the way!! I was worried this wouldn't get much traction since the Pushing Daisies and Outlast fandoms really don't overlap, but I've gotten a few people who've never seen it but are still excited for this!! Thank you for the motivation, means a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, constructive criticism and comments are welcomed and encouraged!
> 
> If you have a request or would like to find me on other social media, my Tumblr is _**milesupy0urs.tumblr.com**_ and I can be contacted there through DM or ask box.  
>  **(CW: NSFW Horror Blog)**


End file.
